


Wild Mountain Thyme

by Dryad



Series: Beauty is the Garden [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, R, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Nice Walk in the Woods</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Mountain Thyme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uniquepov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquepov/gifts).



> Originally written for Uniquepov and the [2012 Lewis Challenge Holiday Challenge!](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Suggested listening: [ Wild Mountain Thyme Playlist](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09vbngMkCdo&feature=share&list=PLCKcnrBehc_wmUYLYxnoCFgP38WZjslPr)
> 
> Guide: 
> 
> Mairead - mirADE  
> MacKay - micK-EYE  
> Farquhar - FARKer (Aberdonian pronunciation)

~*~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a blackbird  
sits on yon tree  
some says it is blind an' cannae see  
some says it is blind an' cannae see  
and so is my true love tae me

~ Blackbird from Martyn Bennett's 'Grit'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The second day in the Highlands of Scotland ended when a stone Lewis stepped on rolled underneath his foot, whereupon he quickly followed, coming to rest against a sheep-sized granite boulder halfway towards the forest below. He lay still, dazed, blinking up as Hathaway picked his way hastily to him.

"Sir! Are you all right?"

Lewis nodded, gratefully accepted the hand offered and gingerly stood up. He carefully put his weight on his foot, took a step or two. His ribs ached and his ankle was oddly loose. "Come on, it's not broken."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded again, ignored his hovering Sergeant as they made their way back up to the barely-there track Constable '"Call me Mairead, everyone does!"' More had sworn led to the top. Both she and Sergeant Barnes had enthused greatly about the local mountains, part of the Grampian range that split Scotland diagonally from the Irish to the North Sea. Which had rightfully made him suspicious. Mountains that could crack an island in half were no mere lightweights and thank god his old walking boots still fit, even though he hadn't used them since the kids were little. 

"It's beautiful," Lewis murmured, stopping to look over the deep glen. Far down the valley a narrow ribbon of water reflected a mottled and gloomy grey sky between nearly bald hills covered in old grass, rock, silver-green scrub. 

"And cold," said Hathaway. 

Lewis rolled his eyes. "Are you never going to stop complaining? And don't tell me you're not used to the outdoors."

"I was a child, I didn't know any better."

With a shake of his head Lewis took one last glance at the glen before heading up the trail again. "McFie must be desperate, coming up this way."

" _We're_ the desperate ones," Hathaway muttered morosely. 

Moments later a steady rain began, forcing them to stop and put on slickers before continuing on. 

Lewis shrugged, grimaced as the straps of his backpack cut into his shoulders and the bruises on his ribs. It wasn't heavy, but the combination of carrying it on the hike plus the fall and the subsequent strain on his ankle had gotten to him. "Let's take a break in 15 minutes and see if Barnes has any answers for us."

Reception was terrible and no matter how often Lewis pressed the button, the sound on his phone refused to get any louder. Even Hathaway's phone magic refused to work, leaving them damp and miserable and without a plan. "Up or down?"

"Up," said Hathaway, eying the sky from beneath his hand. "There's a bothy not too far along."

"Didn't see one marked on the map," The map Constable Mairead had conveniently forgotten to give Lewis after showing it to him in the parking lot. Hopefully it would have a stack of wood or peat or better yet, electricity and a phone.

"Built in the 1890s when climbing was a bit of a fad. Should still be there."

Oh, a bad step, now there was a bite of pain. Lewis distracted himself by trying an exasperated tone. "Hathaway, how do you know these things?"

"Books, sir. I enjoy reading them."

"Are you sure you don't just inhale them instead?"

Hathaway turned and flashed him a smug grin. "What I do when I'm not with you, sir."

Lewis rolled his eyes and said, "How long til we get there?" he suffered the brief but assessing glance, pursed his lips at Hathaway's slight frown of concern. 

"Can't say for sure, maybe half an hour?"

"Right. Let's push on," grunted Lewis, hoping his ankle would hold up for just a little while longer. It didn't hurt badly yet, but it was only a matter of time.

An hour later the rain had stopped, the wind had picked up, near dark had fallen and they had arrived at their destination. It wasn't even a proper bothy, merely a run-down shepherd's hut the size of a closet. Half the roof had been removed, leaving a few rotting timbers as support for the remaining slates. There were no windows, and the freezing wind blustered around the doorless entrance with gusto.

"Best we're going to get tonight, sir," said Hathaway, helping Lewis sit on the somewhat drier side of the hut even though he didn't need it. 

Lewis shifted until he was sitting up against the wall, pulled his knee up a little bit, his other leg stretched out straight before him. "I'm just glad to be out of that bloody wind." 

"Mm," Hathaway toed through the ashes of an old fire. "No chance of heat, I'm afraid. And you shouldn't do that."

Lewis flashed him an irritated look but continued to unlace his boot. He pulled the sides open, shifted ever so slightly and sucked in a hard breath as pain spiked through his ankle and up his leg. "Oh _shit_ \- "

"Sir!" Hathaway started towards him and then stopped. "Just...do it back up. It'll be a makeshift brace until we get off the mountain."

Right. Off the mountain. Hissing through his teeth, Lewis re-laced his boot. He was absurdly glad he'd already done his business outside, the very thought of moving again made him want to retch. Or maybe that was the pain, which had faded and now merely throbbed to the beat of his heart.

"James, talk to me," he commanded, zipping his bright orange cagoule all the way to his chin, leaving the hood off in lieu of his black Marine cap, which was warm enough for the moment.

Hathaway slid down the wall next to Lewis, rolled his head against the rough stone. "I still think this is a wild goose chase. I spoke to Donald Farquhar, he owns Al'ask 'An See, that news agents just off the High Street. MacFie is from the old Craftsmen, also known as tinkers, but not to be confused with the Travelers known as Gypsies or Roma."

"How on earth - " Lewis stared at him open-mouthed, then shook his head. "Never mind, forget I said anything," He hesitantly elevated his foot a little, inched along the ground until he could lie down, pushing his pack behind him to use as a makeshift cushion. The dirt floor was cold and a bit damp and he really wished he was at home, or hell, even in the car. What he wouldn't give for a sleeping bag or even just one of those really thin camping mattresses made of foam, then at least the cold of the floor wouldn't keep him up half the night.

"My point is that as a member of one of the traveling Highland Clans he would be familiar with the passable trails on this mountain."

"Maybe a hundred years ago, but we're in the new millenium and don't even look at those ashes, you don't know how old they might be."

"They could have been there since yesterday morning for all we know. Sir."

A hard silence fell, and just as Lewis was beginning to regret saying anything at all, Hathaway began to speak. His voice was low and mellifluous and the intimacy of their situation struck Lewis in the very core of his being. Not for the first time, though the location was new. Lewis laced his fingers together on his chest and closed his eyes.

"This is Rumi, a Persian poet from the thirteenth century. Very popular these days," Hathaway said quietly. 

"'When I see your face, the stones start spinning.  
You appear. All studying wanders.  
I lose my place.

Water turns pearly.  
Fire dies down and does not destroy. 

In your presence I do not want  
what I thought I wanted,  
those three little hanging lamps.

Inside your face the ancient manuscripts  
seem like rusty mirrors.

You breathe. New shapes appear,  
and the music of a desire as  
widespread as spring  
begins to move like a great wagon.

Drive slowly.  
Some of us walking alongside are lame.'"

"Hmm," Lewis murmured. "Pretty, though I'm not sure I understand what it means," For a moment the wind died down enough for him to hear Hathaway's amused snort. 

"I could recite Shakespeare instead, sir."

"Whatever takes your fancy, lad."

"I'm not in love, so don't forget it - " Hathaway sang.

Lewis whacked him on the leg. "Oi! Less of quoting my ill-gotten youth."

"'Beauty is the garden  
scent of roses, murmuring water  
flowing gently...  
Can words describe the indescribable?'"

"More Rumi?"

"Yes. You might like this better - "

"Didn't say I didn't like it," Lewis muttered very, very softly to himself.

"'Ah, beloved, when the laughing spring is blowing,  
with thee beside me and the cup o'erflowing,  
I pass the day upon this fragrant meadow,  
and dream the while, no thought on heaven bestow - '"

"A little too..." Lewis flapped one hand in the air. "Fluffy?"

Lewis could actually feel Hathaway's disapproval. Well, he wasn't going to apologize for how he felt about flippin' poetry. On the other hand, he also wasn't prepared to deal with a sulking Sergeant all night, either. "Sor-"

"What a voice, what a voice, what a voice I hear - " 

The words were soft and quiet and sung so beautifully they made him want to weep. With a deep sigh Lewis drifted to sleep on the low rumble of Hathaway's voice.

The dream faded, but that was okay, because despite the hard surface he was lying on, and the ache of muscle and bone too long kept in one position, Lewis was surprisingly pleasantly warm. Val was on his right, cuddling close, and if only they were in their bed at home, well.

And then he remembered that Val was dead, and it was Sergeant Hathaway who was lying next to him, and kissing his jaw, and god, right now he wanted to be touched more than anything else in the entire world and he struggled to keep from pushing Hathaway violently off of him. Hathaway's arm lay low across Lewis' hips, trapping his morning erection. Hathaway tightened his grip on his waist and Lewis couldn't help the grunt. It was good - beyond good - and Jesus Christ it had been so long since he'd felt hands other than his own on his body. The rough rasp of stubble against his cheek brought him back from pure sensation, even as he was distracted by the heat of Hathaway's mouth sucking on his earlobe. Lewis pulled away slightly, looked at his Sergeant in the bright dawn light. He whispered, "James."

Hathaway shook his head a little, forehead creased in the tiniest of frowns. At least Lewis thought it was a frown, sometimes it was hard to tell. But he could see the longing and the terror in Hathaway's eyes, the fear that everything was already fucked, that Lewis would reject him as he had been rejected so many times before. And yes, that was an assumption on his part, because despite Zoe and Scarlet and Fiona and Grace, there never seemed to be permanence in Hathaway's life except for himself.

And he couldn't deny there was a Hathaway-shaped space in his heart. He could admit to himself that he loved the lad - cared for him. Val would have liked him, of that he was sure. She would have fed him dinners and invited him over holiday lunches. She would have given him the spare key to the house and told him to get off his high horse. She would have worried and occasionally laundered his work-dirty clothing, because that's the kind of woman she was, and she would have loved him quietly, without fuss, because he was Robbie's, the way Robbie had once been Morse's.

But what was it they were doing? Lewis wasn't sure he was comfortable with anyone touching him, especially another man, though he would tolerate it for Hathaway's sake. But was that fair? If he were honest, sex with another man didn't appeal. At all. Hathaway was familiar. He liked Hathaway. He loved Hathaway in the traditional way of close mates, had never imagined being touched intimately by him.

And yet.

Lewis licked his lips, tried to take a deep breath. If he did this - if they did this, there would be no turning back. Yet...it was already too late. Now that he knew for certain.

They should talk. Discuss the whys and wherefores and what-mights.

And then Lewis was undone when Hathaway slowly lifted his arm and with chilled fingers caressed his face from temple to chin. Lewis shivered hard, the kind of shiver that prompted the phrase 'someone walking over your grave', because it was beyond the mere reaction of his body. In an instant everything changed. " _Je_ sus," he mumbled.

Hathaway was smug down to his toes. He propped himself on one elbow over Lewis, stared him straight in the eye while running his hand from shoulder to hip and across to - 

"Oh god!" Lewis shoved his foot against the ground to turn to Hathaway, then rolled back as agony lanced through his leg. "Christ!" he gritted out.

"Sorry, sorry," muttered Hathaway, rubbing Lewis' hip in soothing circles.

"I'm okay, 's okay," Lewis patted Hathaway's hand. He blinked water out of his eyes, drew in a shaky breath, tried to breathe the pain out. He swallowed and refocused. "This changes everything."

Hathaway bit his lip. "I know. What do you want to do?"

He twisted and reached for Hathaway - for James, pulled him close, kissed him on the lips fiercely once, twice.

And again.

James reciprocated, little whimpers escaping him as their ardor increased. Minutes later they broke apart, brought back to awareness of their surroundings with the sound of voices calling their names.

Events happened very fast after that. Unbeknownst to Lewis, once he had fallen asleep James had walked around the hut, had sent several texts in the hopes Constable Mairead would get them. Which she had, hence Mountain Rescue. His severely sprained ankle attended to with tape and a long bandage, they slowly made their way down the mountain. 

The strip of roadside gravel that passed for the parking lot was overloaded with cars and an ambulance. While Lewis was fussed over, Sergeant Barnes brought him up to speed.

Lewis shook his head in disbelief. "So it was just a goose chase after all?"

"Aye. Turned out he had distant family in the area who'd always believed the coppers stitched him up, never mind his forty year history of crime," Barnes tossed his cigarette onto the ground and stubbed out it out with his boot. He glanced at Lewis out of the corner of his eye. "Read the transcript, saw what you did in 1989."

Lewis flushed, still embarrassed by the praise after so many years. How angry Val had been afterwards, while Morse had boasted of his Sergeant's abilities whenever he thought Lewis wouldn't overhear. "What you have to do on the Job."

Barnes raised both eyebrows at that but said nothing else.

Four hours later Lewis had been checked over at Accident and Emergency, released, had _not_ convinced Innocent he was still needed in Scotland, had packed his bag and been seated on the train. Lewis looked out the window and watched Hathaway walk away from the station, for the first time truly struck by his tall, lean, lanky body, his fair blonde hair turned spun gold in the evening sun. Dishy, that's what Laura had called him once. 

Dishy, hmm, yes.

Lewis spent the better part of the week catching up on paperwork. He gave his testimony for the Tisman inquest. He reviewed the evidence for the CPS with Beckett and Corwin. 

Hathaway did not send him any texts.

Lewis wrote evaluations for Davendra Smith and Tony Kearns, with added suggestions to fast track them into Computer Crime and Counter Terrorism respectively. He had coffee with Laura. He went shopping, decided he would try actually cooking something for once, tossing a small ham and a bag of green peas into his trolley along with an onion and a packet of lardons. Later on, he called Lyn for instructions and fobbed off her "Are you feeling alright?" question with a vague "Just tired of me ankle" answer.

Saturday morning he had his foot on a chair, rewrapping his ankle as if that would make the pain go away, when DI Hughes passed by the doorway, then reappeared. 

Hopeful that Hughes was just going to give him the folders he carried, Lewis nodded, said, "Morning."

"What's your lad's game, eh?" asked Hughes with a sharp smile.

"Pardon?"

"Your Sergeant, Hathaway. You not keeping him busy enough?" 

Lewis shifted, shoved his foot back into his shoe. He got up and spun the other chair back to Hathaway's desk. "Spit it out, man, I can see you're dying to tell me."

Hughes quirked his eyebrows. "Saw him at The Hooded Man last night, pissed out of his skull. Some fella had to help him out to a taxi."

"He's a young man doing what young men do, Hughes," Lewis said. Besides MacFie and their caseload, Hathaway was also on the second week of a Sex Offender course, which he hated. Lewis had his suspicions why, but had never asked. 

"Well..." Hughes looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I just thought you should know."

Lewis didn't even bother being polite. "Don't you have someplace you're supposed to be?"

"Yes, sir," spat Hughes. He shoved off the doorjamb and stalked away.

Lewis rubbed his face and slumped against his chair. God, it was going to be a long day.

9pm. Lewis opened the door to find Hathaway leaning against the wall. His plain dark violet tie had been loosened and his hair stood up like a mad thing. A white plastic bag of takeout - curry, by the smell - swung from one hand, the other held a six pack of Tennants. Though his expression was typically solemn, his lips trembled ever so slightly, his eyes were red-rimmed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was gravelled and desperate.

"I can't do this, Robbie. I can't go on, pretending everything is fine when it's not and I don't know how to fix it, I don't know how to make it better apart from leaving and that wouldn't be better at all - "

Hathaway stopped abruptly. Lewis stepped back and to the side, gestured the other man in. He followed Hathaway into the kitchen, aware of how delicate the next few minutes were going to be. Hathaway had frozen at the breakfast bar, staring at the open can of lager in his hands as though it were a ticking bomb. Just as well, now Lewis had something to do. He brought out two plates from the cupboard and the requisite forks and knives, three soup spoons for serving, another plate for the naan and the raita, the bhaji and the poppadom. While the curries (Chicken Jalfrezi and Lamb Bhuna) and mushroom pillau reheated in the oven - because Val always said it tasted better that way - Lewis finally turned to face his miserable Sergeant.

Hathaway didn't look up, but his brows drew together as he toyed with a fork, pressing the tines into the meat of his thumb.

"James," Lewis said gently. With no answer forthcoming, he uncrossed his arms and stepped around the breakfast bar, leaned against it. "James, it's going to be alright. Everything's going to be fine."

"How can you say that? How can you _know?_ "

" _James_ ," he repeated, putting everything he had into the word, everything he might not ever be able to say. Reaching out he touched James' shoulder very gently, giving the lad time to shift away if he needed. "I...we are who we are, and that's...we're not...like that."

James eyed him sharply. "Like what?"

Shit. "I...James...I don't know how to explain it. I loved Val, I always will, and I know I'll never find another woman like her. I won't find anyone like her...and you and I - I," Lewis shrugged helplessly.

"Shall we just pretend it never happened, sir?"

"No! No, man, that's not what I'm saying at all. I don't have a plan for us, I just don't want us to forget how we got here. I don't us to not be mates. You're important to me in ways I don't have words fo-"

James stopped Lewis with a hard and swift kiss, drawing back afterwards and searching his face for...what? After a second he smiled, the rare bright smile , the one that Lewis had only seen when James was very happy. Which must mean...?

"Right, sir. Bhuna or Jalfrezi?"

"Now hold on, what just happened here?"

"After you attempted to use words, I proposed we eat dinner."

Lewis stared at James suspiciously. "Have I just agreed to something?"

James' mouth twitched. "You've admitted you love me and you know how I feel about you, so I think we can commence with the comestibles."

Lewis blinked. "Oh. Right. James...I don't know what I'm doing."

James visibly softened, his gaze fond. "Yes, you do."

 

~*~ fin ~*~

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Constant surprises coming my way  
Some call it 'coincidence'  
but I like to call it fate  
~ 'Constant Surprises' by Little Dragon

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> When I began this story - way back in May 2012, the result of a dream I'd had, I'd imagined it as a smutty little ficlet. And then...not so much. But the sequel, god, yes! Should appear sometime in 2013.
> 
> Al'ask 'An See - actual News Agents on King St, Aberdeen.
> 
> 'A Great Wagon' - p.185, Rumi: The Big Red Book. Coleman Barks, trans. 
> 
> 'Beauty is the Garden' - p.96, Rumi's Little Book of Life: The Garden of the Soul, the Heart, and the Spirit. Maryam Mafi and Azima Melita Kolin, trans.
> 
> 'Ah, Beloved...' - The Stanzas of Omar Khayyam. John Leslie Garner, trans. (Google Books pdf)
> 
> 'Blackbird' - from 'Grit' by Martyn Bennett, sung by Lizzie Higgins (daughter of Jeanne Robinson, herself a Traveler and recorded in London by none other than Alan Lomax).
> 
> The Craftsman/Tinkers - according to the coursework I did at Google University, the Craftsmen were indigenous Highlanders really truly unrelated to the Roma known as 'gypsies' throughout Europe and America. Hence the Clan names and lack of Roma words in their speech.
> 
> If the link doesn't work, here are the playlist songs in their order, all available on YT:
> 
> MacCrimmon's Lament - Martyn Bennett (taken too soon from us).  
> Blackbird - arr. Martyn Bennett, sung by Lizzie Higgins  
> Mirrorball - Elbow (Lewis)BBC Orchestra live version recommended  
> One Fine Day - Elbow (Hathaway) BBC Orchestra live version recommended  
> Constant Surprises - Little Dragon (Off the Avenue live version recommended)


End file.
